


Jeeves and the Literary Gifts

by triedunture



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: Erotica, M/M, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-12
Updated: 2010-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:39:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a href="http://random-nexus.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://random-nexus.livejournal.com/"><b>random_nexus</b></a>. Jeeves gets his mitts on some Victorian fiction of a rummy sort and it is SO good he must find the author. Now who do you suppose that might be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jeeves and the Literary Gifts

Title: Jeeves and the Literary Gifts  
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster  
Rating: PG14  
Length: 13,000 words  
Warnings: Jeeves POV, mutual masturbation  
Summary: For [](http://random-nexus.livejournal.com/profile)[**random_nexus**](http://random-nexus.livejournal.com/). Jeeves gets his mitts on some Victorian fiction of a rummy sort and it is SO good he must find the author. Now who do you suppose that might be?

 

It began, as my literary pursuits often do, at Horatio & Sons Booksellers, Ltd., one of the finest small bookshops in London and conveniently located just off Curzon Street. It was my custom to drop in at the shop on my way to the Junior Ganymede if I had a few spare shillings to spend on improving books, the one luxury I allow myself. On the day in question, I had considerably more than a few shillings to spend, as I had just done a small favour for one of Mr Wooster’s acquaintances; Mr Hildebrand Glossop had proven most generous in rewarding me for uncovering his lost handkerchief.

(As you can imagine, it was not the handkerchief itself that was so valuable, but the embarrassment and trouble saved in its discovery in an unfortunate location. Miss Angela, Mr Glossop’s fiance, would not have taken kindly to hearing the monogrammed article had been retrieved from--well, as all discreet gentlemen’s gentlemen should at a juncture like this one, I digress. Suffice to say my remuneration for the task had been ample.)

My entry into Horatio & Sons was marked by the pleasant tinkling of the door’s bell and the delicious scent of aging pages and leather bindings. I inhaled deeply and turned to greet the little man who hurried to the door to assist me.

“Good morning, Mr Jeeves!” Mr Horatio hailed. He was not the original Mr Horatio, but rather one of three sons who ran the bookshop in the wake of their father’s retirement. This particular Horatio was the middle son, a very pleasant man with a rotund belly and thick sideburns. He stood in sharp contrast to his elder brother, gaunt and tall, whom one could catch glimpses of in the back room of the shop, muttering and dipping over the ledgers with the air of an eyeglass-wearing flamingo.

I removed my bowler hat and nodded. “Good morning, Mr Horatio. I was wondering if last week’s order had arrived.”

“It certainly has, not fifteen minutes ago. I have your parcel behind the counter; one moment!” The middle Horatio propelled himself in that direction with all his portly speed.

“No need to hurry, Mr Horatio,” I said. “I would like to browse, if you don’t mind.”

His answering call indicated he did not mind, though he did not lessen the speed with which he sifted through the various brown paper parcels under the counter, if the thumping noises in that direction were any clue. I wound my way through the narrow, crammed bookshelves until I found myself in my favourite section of the shop. It was an act of Providence that the realms of Philosophy, Psychology, and History met neatly in the back right corner of Horatio & Sons. I set to perusing the spines of the books, running my hands over titles I had coveted in the past but had not purchased due to their high prices; today, I considered, I might be able to treat myself.

“Oh!” a high, soft voice behind me spoke. “Hullo, Mr Jeeves! I thought I heard you come in.”

I turned to acknowledge the youngest brother, Mr Leslie Horatio. He was a small, nervous man, blessed with delicate features and a full head of wavy dark hair. This Horatio, it must be admitted, was the real reason my patronage at this particular bookshop was assured. Quiet whispers from various mentors and friends at the Ganymede had passed the advice to me: Leslie Horatio was one of us, and he could perform services for you that no other man in London could.

“Good morning, Les,” I said (for he had often insisted I use his Christian name to differentiate himself from his elder brothers).

He gestured for me to follow him as he began walking even further into the maze of shelves. “Come to collect your order, then? The Kierkegaard, yes? A fine volume, Mr Jeeves, you’ll be pleased with it, I’m sure.” While he kept up the constant stream of idle chatter, the young man led me to an isolated section, a dead end somewhere between Ancient Art and Animal Kingdom, The. With a quick glance to ensure we were alone, the young Horatio tugged one special book forward. A subtle _click_ could be heard deep in the shelves, and the entire bookcase began rotating with a quiet groan.

Les continued speaking loudly to cover the noise. “You may not enjoy him as much as you enjoy your Spinoza, Mr Jeeves, but I daresay nothing would come close to touching that, yes? But a fine volume, certainly, a fine volume.”

The secret bookcase completed its rotation, and the hidden contents of Horatio & Sons were lined up before me. De Sade, Balzac, _Lady Chatterley’s Lover_ , dozens of editions of Wilde, _The Well of Loneliness_. There were small pamphlets filled with salacious picture cards from Paris. There were comical and obscene drawings bound into tiny leaflets known as Tijuana Bibles. There were unknown and anonymous authors next to the infamous, all touching on the same illegal subjects. It was a varied and altogether illicit collection, and one of the few in the city that catered to men of my tastes, for among the photographs of nude French women and novels of unfaithful wives, there were reading materials made specially for the inverted gentleman.

“Are you looking for anything special today, Mr Jeeves?” Les asked in a quiet undertone.

I calculated swiftly. With the money given to me by Mr Glossop, I could afford my small order, two volumes on psychology I had been examining for months, and still have some money left over for one or two jewels from the special collection.

I answered in a low voice. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to recommend something, Les.”

His quick, birdlike hand shot out to grab a small book, inelegantly bound in cheap cardboard. “When this came in the other day, Mr Jeeves, I thought you might be very interested.”

I took the book from him. The cover, as was usual with books of this kind, did not offer an author, listing only _An Imaginative Gentleman_ as the creator. The title embossed above that moniker stated only _James and Marling_. I flicked through the brittle pages, not reading any passages but examining the poor quality of the printing. It was common for these “underground novels” to be printed in batches of only a hundred or so on an amateur's printing press, resulting in a sloppy yet serviceable product. One couldn’t afford to be very discerning in this area, after all.

“Wrap it up with the rest of the order, if you would.”

I had planned to spend my free afternoon at the Junior Ganymede, perhaps enjoying a quiet luncheon with old friends. However, the prospect of carrying my brown paper parcel to my club and leaving it in the care of the porter (trusted though he may be) inspired in me no little anxiety; therefore, I went straight home to Berkeley Square, carrying the package of books under my arm and feeling a slight thrill in my chest whenever I passed by a policeman walking his beat.

Mr Wooster had an appointment with his aunt, Mrs Gregson, that afternoon, so the flat was empty when I returned. I carried the parcel to my room and opened it with great care, arranging the volumes of poetry and philosophy on my modest bookcase, setting the treatises on psychology on the little table next to my overstuffed reading chair. Then, finally, I turned my attention to _James and Marling_.

It was a slim book, barely a novella. I estimated it would take me only a few hours to read it, even if I savoured the words as slowly as I was able. I glanced at my pocket watch; it was always difficult to tell how much time Mr Wooster would need for an interview with his aunt. Luncheon might last for hours if Mrs Gregson was in particularly good form, or Mr Wooster might be able to escape within thirty or forty minutes. I decided I had enough time to begin the little book. If I took all the necessary precautions.

At the foot of my narrow bed stood a locked strongbox made of steel. Of course, only a fool would hide his illegal materials in a locked box in plain sight; I shoved the box aside with a grunt and, with the speed of a man who has done this countless times, pried up the loose floorboard underneath it.

There in this small space under my floor, a treasure trove of damning articles resided: blurry, yellowing photographs of nude men in classical poses, obscene drawings depicting inverted acts, the poetry of Oscar Wilde, and short erotic novels attributed to nameless writers. The latter had been read so many times their pages were coming loose.

With my hiding place suitably readied in case I needed to dispose of my newest acquisition in a hurry, I sat in my overstuffed chair and began reading.

James & Marling

(It began.)

by An Imaginative Gentleman

I attempted to contain my derisive snort. Surely the gentleman in question could not be _too_ imaginative, having made no attempt at a plausible pseudonym. However, as I’ve said before, I could not afford to be too discerning when choosing this material, and so I read on:

It was in the harsh winter of 1873 that William James came to be employed as a footman at Peregrine’s Folly, the sprawling ancestral home of Alfred Marling and his family.

Oh Lord, I thought. Another quasi-historical master and servant tale. I considered flipping through the pages to find a more exciting passage, but I reigned in my eagerness and pressed onward. After all, as irritating as some of these Victorian stories could be with their anachronistic details, I harboured a deep and abiding longing for that age. I had been born just too late to properly enjoy its sensual menswear and elegant furnishings. Of course I would be loath to forgo my modern conveniences, and no sane man would say London wasn’t changed for the better now that motorcars had replaced horses and carriages, but there was still an ache in my heart for a time when traditions mattered and my personal attitudes toward feudal propriety (as Mr Wooster sometimes characterises it) would not be out of place.

And so I read on. The story, at first glance, appeared to be a very simple one: the main character, William James, was a dashing young footman new to the staff of a wealthy and powerful family somewhere in the vague, misty countryside. The master of the house, Alfred Marling, was possessed of a terrible temper, and James, being our hero, was quickly learning to navigate the waters of his new situation. I very nearly sighed in impatience as a caustic exchange between the young footman and Marling was described in florid detail; I disliked tales of young, innocent servants being seduced by old, lecherous employers. Such a fantasy never held much interest for me, though some of my close friends and colleagues had confided that the thought thrilled them. I could never understand the attraction.

I turned the page, fully expecting the story to devolve into the usual manner, when a new character was introduced. Rudolph Marling was the handsome, charming, well-dressed, well-mannered, kind, gentle, brave, and altogether impossible son of Alfred Marling. He was revealed to be the real love interest for James the footman. Now my interest was truly piqued, and I read with relish.

“Please do not judge all the Marlings on the actions of my father, I beg of you,” Rudolph said as he dabbed his fine silken handkerchief against James’ brow, tending to the small wound inflicted by his father’s walking stick. “He’s a dreadful tyrant, and it would wound me deeply if his beastly nature caused you to think ill of me.”

“Master Rudolph,” James answered with his eyes politely averted to the stable’s dirt floor, “I mean no disrespect, but my opinion is what should matter least of all, by rights.”

The golden-haired youth reeled as if he himself had been struck across the face with Marling’s jewel-tipped cane. “My dear James! May I never hear such words soil your dulcet tones again.” And, realising he had perhaps spoken too freely, the young master blushed a deep pink; yet his gentle ministrations to James’ injury continued in a tense silence which was broken only when he added, “Also, you simply must address me as Rudy. Please.”

William James had never imagined he would be directed to be so familiar with his betters, and certainly not one so fair, so well-suited to his coat of deep violet, and so kind. “I--I fear doing so would incite the anger of your father yet again, Master Rudolph,” he choked out, fighting back tears of shame as he did so, for he was loath to let this creature think him cowardly and self-serving when he was actually afraid of the possible retribution Rudolph would encounter for allowing such a breach of decorum.

Perhaps Rudolph Marling understood this, for he nodded after a moment, his fingertips pausing to stroke James’ warm brow. His lips parted as if in a dream and--

The front door shut with a bang. “I say, Jeeves! Are you in residence, old thing?” my master’s voice rang out through the flat.

I shook myself from my deep concentration, flung the sordid book into its ready hiding place, covered it quickly, and sped to the foyer to receive Mr Wooster.

“My apologies for my tardiness, sir,” I said, hoping my face was not as flushed as it felt. “May I ask how your interview with Mrs Gregson progressed?”

From the pinched look on his face, I could already see it had not gone well. “Rally round, Jeeves,” Mr Wooster sighed as he dropped onto the piano bench. “This will be one for the books, what?”

As he launched into his narrative about what his aunt was planning now, I hung up his hat and mixed his cocktail and murmured encouragingly, all while wondering how I could have allowed my mind to wander as it had. Normally I can discern with my careful ear when Mr Wooster’s footsteps approach the front door, minutes before his entrance. It was extremely disturbing to know the damning book had distracted me so completely.

And I once again found that my concentration was lacking, for as I pondered this, I realised Mr Wooster had ceased speaking and was watching me with growing concern. “Jeeves, my trusted stalwart, have you heard a word the young master has said?” he asked.

I attempted to recover swiftly. “I am sorry, sir. I--”

“Have you perhaps come down with a touch of that influenza that’s been bandied about the metrop. this season?”

“I fervently hope not, sir.”

“Perhaps you’ve heard this particular back-and-forth with my Aunt Agatha so many times your attention has begun to wane? I know the look of the glassy-eyed audience, Jeeves.”

“While it is true the shape of your tête-à-têtes with Mrs Gregson are normally along the same lines, sir, I promise you I will bend my mind to this current problem with all the vigour I have employed in the past.” I bowed gravely. “Another cocktail, sir?”

His bright blue eyes sparkled as he placed his highball glass on the salver I held. “I’m not needling you, you know. If you need a bit of a break from the mundane, well, all you must do is holler.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” I mixed his drink and continued to see to his needs, which included listening to his repetition of Mrs Gregson’s threats. They were, as Mr Wooster had intimated, very routine; I formulated a counter-plan as easily as one might breathe. My master was delighted with my idea to shift Mrs Gregson’s concern to her son Thos., who was always in some sort of trouble at any rate. The evening then progressed as usual: dinner was served, Mr Wooster stayed up past midnight working on the latest chapter of his serial, and I accomplished a few miscellaneous chores until it was time to see my master to bed.

I admit I had spent the entire evening anticipating the time when I might return to _James and Marling_. Though I could not exactly put my finger on why, it was a story that intrigued me, and there were several times while I dried the dishes that I found myself daydreaming of how it might progress.

That night in my lair, I curled up in my armchair with a tumbler of scotch and read on. James and Rudolph did kiss that night in the stables, though James, being a footman, struggled with the ramifications of forming such an attachment with his employer’s son. Matters were further complicated when a sudden illness among the staff necessitated James taking over the duties of personal servant to Rudy. The young aristocrat continued to make plaintive, gentle overtures to James, which were haltingly rebuffed. Their forced closeness became fraught with tension. Suddenly the application of a cravat or shirt studs became an erotic journey, with James’ calloused fingers touching Rudy’s skin in a way that made my own blood sing in my veins.

One passage in particular I read and re-read, staying up late into the night:

The camel-coloured fall front trousers proved to be James’ undoing. They were tight, impossibly tight, on Rudolph’s lithe legs, and the ivory buttons provided the perfect frame for the outline of his master’s manhood, trapped as a moth in amber beneath the taut fabric. James knelt before Rudy (it could not be helped; the familiar appellation had crept onto James’ mind, if not his tongue) and tried desperately not to notice the faint scent of musk that tempted him. He adjusted the trousers with a final expert tug and looked up at his young master.

Rudy was staring down at him, his shirt still hanging open, his cravat looped loosely about his neck. The lamplight glinted off his blond curls, and he seemed to glow, James thought, much like an angel band might. One delicate, soft hand came up to frame James’ face. He could not suppress the shiver that ran through his body at the simple touch, could not help but lean into the sweet-scented palm.

“Dearest, dearest William,” he whispered. (He had discovered James’ Christian name and was not averse to using it to great effect.) “Would that I could trade my place here with yours. I would not hesitate for even a moment.”

“Why would you wish to be a footman, sir?” James asked.

“For if you were my master, and you were the one begging me for my sweet kiss, I would not have the strength of character to refuse you.” His hand left James’ face to wipe away his own tears, which threatened to ruin the silk of his cravat.

“My God.” James clutched his master’s knee and pressed his face to the perfect thigh. “It is not my character that keeps me from your gentle embrace! It is my cowardice. Only my damnable cowardice!”

Rudy dropped to the floor as well and flung his arms round the sobbing man. “Is not the greater fear that of living the rest of your life without knowing love!? I can only speak for myself, but to never again know your touch or to hear my name on your lips is worse than all else! Will you be as brave as I am rash, William, and kiss me? Kiss me just this once and it shall sustain me evermore, I swear it!”

Yes, I know. It’s not exactly Tennyson, but I did not care. I was enraptured. To be a man who could speak of his heart’s desire like this, with such beautiful sentiments . . . I could only dream of such things. The last romantic advances I had been privy to were those of a slightly drunk, slightly smelly fellow member of the Ganymede. His exact words, if I recall, had been, “What do you say, Reg? Fancy a few quick ones?”

I shudder to think of the day when my standards fall to such decrepit levels as to accept an invitation such as that. Though, I mused with not a little self-pity, that day may not be so far off; it had been nearly a year since my last encounter of the corporeal nature, and even that instance had not been so magnificent as to inspire within me sweet sighs of remembrance. Mr Wooster might phrase it, well, that the man had been something of a dud.

At any rate, it was most assuredly my prolonged loneliness that made me pine for a passionate adventure such James and Marling’s. I tore through the rest of the book, nearly gasping with happiness as James at last gave in to his young master’s loving touches; sighing with longing as James confessed his abiding affection; gnashing my teeth as the evil Alfred Marling attempted to wager James during a card game, as if he were nothing more than a fob watch or a half-crown. Rudy naturally flew to his companion’s side and demanded justice from his father, who knew better than to gamble with the lives and situations of his loyal servants.

The next scene shook me to the core, though you may mock me for falling for its overly dramatic charms; I was quite invested in the story at that point.

“I see now,” snarled Rudolph’s father, his sharp eyes darting between his son and his silent servant. “It should have been plain as the nose on my face, and you may laugh at my foolishness for allowing it to escape unnoticed for so long, but now, oh yes, now I see all.”

“You speak in riddles, father,” Rudy murmured. He moved slowly in front of James, shielding him as well he could from his pater’s gaze, his wrath. A false, trembling smile played on Rudy’s lips. “I have no inkling what you--”

“Silence!” roared the elder Marling. “The true shape of this unnatural friendship between you and this urchin has become clear. I know now what I must do!”

All pretense lost, Rudy turned helplessly to his lover, who stood pale and panicked against the low stone wall that marked the border of the Marling grounds. James watched as a man dreaming as Rudy’s lips shaped the terrible words: William, run.

But James’ gaze was now arrested by the sight of Alfred Marling slowly pulling his pearl-handled pistol from his waistcoat. And he prayed with desperate need that Rudolph’s face would be the last thing he managed to see before his Maker came to claim him.

There the chapter ended. I turned the page with such violence, the cheap paper was ripped halfway from its bindings. And yet, the only thing I found waiting for me at the end of the book was a few blank pages. That was it? That was the final scene? How could anyone be expected to be content with that final line!?

I flipped back a few pages, hoping I had somehow skipped over the last chapter, but no. That was all there was.

I sat back in my armchair heavily, not realising until then how I had hunched forward. My back and neck ached, and my eyes burned from the unblinking attention I had given the pages. A faint shaft of sunlight suddenly filtered across my face, and I gave a startled gasp. The sun was rising!

I looked at my bedside clock to confirm it was morning. Dear God, I thought, how absolutely stupid of me to let the time slip by like that. I would now have to see to my day’s work in a state of pure exhaustion. And not just physical exhaustion; I felt like my heart had been witness to a birth, a wedding, and a funeral all in one night.

I examined the plain cover of the novella once more. This Imaginative Gentleman had moved me in a way few ever had, and I was eager to know more about him. My fingertip traced the faux gilt of his _nomme de plume_.

At this point, it should be fairly obvious to you that I would be compelled to find this mysterious author, if for no other reason than to shake his hand. It wasn’t often a tawdry tale such as this grabbed me, and although I acknowledged privately that my fervor may have been due to a rising desire for companionship, it made no difference. I loved this book, and I had to find its creator.

Rather than snatch a few minutes of unsatisfying sleep, I decided to throw myself headlong into the day’s chores. I worked through my tiredness until mid-afternoon, when Mr Wooster left for his club and I was afforded a chance to visit the Ganymede. I had good reason to do so; I wanted to inquire among my circle of like-minded acquaintances for any clues leading to the identity of the author. As you can imagine, ours was a small community and I had an idea who would know the man behind the secret book.

I met my colleague Carlson in the drawing room of the Junior Ganymede. He greeted me warmly and bid me to join him in having a glass of sherry. Being nearly sixty years old, Carlson was an experienced valet and the members of my club often looked to him for guidance in the professional realm. However, only a few close friends (and I was lucky to be counted among that number) knew Carlson was also an invert. I had relied on his wise counsel in the past, for it was Carlson who had taught me how to keep my nature hidden in plain sight as a manservant.

“I’m afraid I must ask for your help once more,” I said quietly as I took an armchair across from him. The drawing room was fairly empty at that time of day, but I was still anxious someone might overhear our conversation.

Carlson sensed this, as he always did, and glanced round the room. An aged butler was snoring in the corner, slumped over in his chair, and a serving boy was tidying up the empty tumblers and martini glasses on the side tables. We were otherwise alone, and Carlson nodded in satisfaction.

“Always a pleasure to help you, young Reginald,” he said, for he would forever consider me “young,” as he had first made my acquaintance when I was a mere seventeen years of age. And even then, he had known what I was and how terribly I required assistance in carrying my burden. To say Carlson had taken me under his wing was too light a statement. I believe he saved my life.

It was only because of this deep friendship we shared that I felt I could tell him about the book. “Have you read _James and Marling_?” I asked. “I picked up a copy this week at Horatio’s.”

Carlson fingered his white mustache and hummed in thought. “Marling? It doesn’t ring any bells.”

“The work is attributed to An Imaginative Gentleman,” I added.

His face lit up in recognition. “Ah! Of course! I remember Baker mentioning the second one to me. We went to the baths last week and--”

“I’m sorry--the second one?” I interrupted. Thomas Baker was Carlson’s, what shall I call him, compatriot, and had been for some time. I knew Baker shared my interest in special collections of literature, but I hadn’t thought our tastes were so similar. “What second one?”

“Well, it’s a series, isn’t it? About a footman and a young master? Baker raves about it constantly. Says it makes him cry like a girl, though Baker will cry at almost anything, if I’m honest. I’ve told him--”

A series? As in more than one? My imaginative gentleman had not stopped at that final wretched scene? “I must read them all,” I said, cutting off poor dear Carlson again. “I can’t explain it, but I have this fascination--”

Carlson smiled at me as an indulgent uncle might. “Thomas has the second and third books in his possession. I’ll have him deliver them to you, all right?”

“Thank you.” I clasped his hand briefly. I hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Do either you or Baker know who the author might be?”

“I’ve not the faintest,” Carlson said. “He’s not one of ours.” By which he meant, not one of the inverted members of the Ganymede or other fraternity of servants. I hid my disappointment poorly, for Carlson laughed. “You don’t plan on tracking this chap down, do you Jeeves? What if he’s my age, or has spots, or is a she?”

I flushed slightly, covering my embarrassment with a sip of my sherry. “I do not intend to woo this writer or lure _him_ ,” I emphasised imperiously, “to my bed. I only thought, as he wrote so sympathetically of the serving class, he might be someone in our circle.”

Carlson shook his head. “I’m sorry, lad. He’s a ghost to me.”

I gave an unhappy sigh but continued my conversation with Carlson, chatting about less scandalous subjects. After catching up with my old friend, I left my club and headed in the direction of the flat, stopping at Horatio’s to continue my investigation into the identity of An Imaginative Gentleman.

Les was busy stocking shelves near the back of the shop, and his cheeks flushed becomingly when he saw me.

“How lovely to see you again, Mr Jeeves,” he stammered. “I wasn’t aware you had ordered anything new this week.”

“I didn’t.” I leaned in closer to the young man and dropped my voice to a low murmur. “Leslie, I need your assistance. I must know more about the book you sold me from the special collection the last time I was here.”

His eyes went wide. “O-of course. What did you need to know?”

I bent toward him so my lips nearly grazed his ear. I perceived a slight shiver pass through his frame; I had often wondered if Leslie Horatio harboured certain impure thoughts about my person, and it appeared he did. And I was not above using that information to my advantage. “Who wrote it?” I whispered to him.

Les pulled back to look at me wildly, his mouth a perfect O. “Mr Jeeves, I can’t say-- That is, even if I did know--”

“Calm yourself,” I soothed. “You know I am not an informant; I will not betray your trust.”

“But why do you need to know the author?” he asked me in a lost voice.

“Because he--” The lie nearly tripped off my tongue with practiced ease. I could have said any number of things: because he is in danger, because I have a message for him, because because because-- “Because he’s touched my heart,” I finally said truthfully. Leslie stared at me in surprise, and I shook my head, shocked at myself as well. “It sounds strange, I know, but I must speak to him. To thank him.”

Les licked his lips. “I do not know the author personally,” he said. “The books are delivered from the printer, a secret location on the South Bank. The money goes through the printer as well. Cash, never a cheque.”

I withheld my curses with some effort. “So there is no way to find him?”

Leslie shook his head. “None that I know.” He dropped his earnest gaze. “I am sorry.”

I had known it was a long shot, but still I could not completely hide my disappointment. “Thank you anyway, Les, for your help.” I turned to leave.

“Wait, Mr Jeeves.” Les laid his slim hand on my arm. I turned back to him. He swallowed visibly and said, “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

For a brief moment, I considered abandoning my wild-goose chase for someone I had never met; here was an attractive young man who shared both my inverted nature and my love of books. Perhaps, I thought, I might be content receiving much-needed affection from Leslie. But I realised just as quickly how unfair it would be to Les to do so, when my mind was so clearly fixed on someone else.

I nodded to Les and left for home. Mr Wooster was playing the piano in the sitting room when I arrived. He called a greeting to me over the cheery song, and I murmured a response while hanging my hat. The music stopped, and Mr Wooster twisted on the bench to squint at me.

“What’s the good word, Jeeves?” he asked. “Is the city buzzing and all that?”

I mustered a quick smirk in his direction. Mr Wooster, I knew, was a light-hearted gentleman, if somewhat lacking in serious thought. At times, I found his peculiar attitude toward life almost grating in its simplicity; however, at the moment I was glad for my employer’s friendly demeanour, for he did not even question where I had been all afternoon.

I saw to my duties that evening as usual, dressing Mr Wooster for dinner at his club and seeing him off into the warm evening. A few hours later, I was delivered Baker’s copies of the next two books in the James and Marling series, hidden inside a hollowed-out telephone directory. I raced through these two installments in record time.

The heroes had escaped with their lives following the events of the first book, of course. In _James and Marling in Paris_ , the two characters flee, quite obviously, to Paris, where their erotic exploration of each other is interrupted only by a jealous son of the Marquis, who desires James as his concubine. The story ends with the distasteful French noble dispatched by the brave Marling, who defends his lover with his own life.

The third book, _James and Marling Return_ , is slow and more complex. The story begins with the revelation that Rudy’s father has died, leaving the Marling estate without an heir. Rudy must return to England to claim his rightful title, but James begs him to remain in Paris, where they have built a life. The foundation of their relationship is threatened as both men must decide what is truly important. I was nearly to the end of the book when I heard Mr Wooster return.

I quickly hid my illicit materials and manifested in the foyer to receive my master. He was, in his own words, “rather pickled” after the events of the evening at the Drones club. He giggled and swayed as I saw him to bed.

“Oh, Jeeves,” he laughed as he flopped crossways on his bed. “Sometimes I wonder what you must think of me.”

I unlaced Mr Wooster’s shoes and placed them in his wardrobe; I would shine them in the morning. “Really, sir?” I said noncommittally.

“I suppose, especially at times like these, you think very little of me.” He peered up at me as I rolled off his socks for him. “Or rather, you think of me very little.”

“Certainly not, I assure you,” I said gently. These periods of melancholy were rare for my master, but they did crop up from time to time, usually accompanied by liquor. “Would you like to avail yourself of a pillow, sir?” I coaxed Mr Wooster to lie properly on the bed, and he allowed me to manoeuvre him without complaint. He was asleep before I removed his waistcoat.

I dressed him in his pyjamas and returned to my room to finish my book in peace. The next morning, I was plagued by thoughts of the story I had read. The bittersweet ending haunted me: Rudy returned to his estate to claim his fortune, not because he desired money, but so his sister and mother would not be abandoned. William James stayed behind in Paris, heartbroken that he could not follow his lover home because he (James, that is) was accused of murdering Rudy’s father. The final scene showed the lovers parting with the promise to somehow find each other again.

I needed to take my mind off of the adventures of James and Marling, so after delivering breakfast to a fuzzy-headed Mr Wooster and dressing him for the day, I went out to run household errands. I visited the bank, the shops, and tailors’ that day in the course of my chores, and a little after lunchtime I found myself strolling along the Thames. I had thought a short walk along the water would clear my head, but I was instead surprised to see Mr Wooster, whangee in hand, stepping from Waterloo Bridge. The crowd was thick at that time of day, and he weaved through them as he left the bridge and continued north toward Covent Garden. I was perplexed. Mr Wooster was a self-admitted creature of habit. He disliked leaving the small area he’d carved out for himself round Piccadilly, and the only time he’d ever been to the South Bank in my memory was when he took his young cousin to see a Shakespeare production at the Old Vic. There was no earthly reason why Mr Wooster should be walking in that neighborhood at two o’clock in the afternoon, at least, none I knew of.

I filed the information away as harmless, yet intriguing. When I returned to the flat, my master was there already, and he did not volunteer what his day’s plans had been. And I thought no more of it until that night, when my master was ensconced at his writing table in the sitting room after supper.

I was attempting to do some of the everyday cleaning on which I had fallen behind since my infatuation with my seedy book series. I dusted the furniture in the foyer and sitting room, refreshed the linens in the master bedroom, and was rearranging the suits in the wardrobe when I noticed something curious. The lamp on Mr Wooster’s bedside table seemed askew. I examined the lampshade, but it was fastened properly. Rather, the lamp itself was crooked. Further investigation revealed that the lamp could actually be taken apart in the middle of its brass stem, but whoever had last done so had been careless, leaving the top half slightly off its screw-top threads.

I unscrewed the fixture so I could set the lamp right again, and as I did so, a tight coil of papers sprang out of the stem. This was most unusual. Mr Wooster had a safe in his study; why would he need to hide papers in a secret compartment, I wondered.

I should have known then: Because only a fool hides his most important possessions in a locked box in plain sight.

I unfurled the papers, not because I wished to pry into my master’s affairs, but because I felt it was my duty to investigate the matter. What I read there, written in his cramped hand, made my mouth go dry. Words--familiar names--swam before me on the page.

James. And Marling. Here in Mr Wooster’s handwriting. They were speaking and going on with their story, though I had not yet read this particular portion yet. How was this possible? Was this--?

The loud CLANG of the typewriter in the other room shook me from my stupor. “Jeeves!” my master called from his writing desk. “I’m dying for a cocktail. Would you be so good as to wrangle one?”

I hurriedly rolled the papers back into their tight tube and stuffed them back into their hiding place. “One moment, sir,” I called, hoping my voice wasn’t shaking as I feared. But how could I remain steady when Mr Wooster had been the Imaginative Gentleman this entire time?

Strangely, my initial reaction to my discovery was anger. How idiotic, I thought, to write down such dangerous things in one’s own handwriting! How easily he could be caught! My heart clenched in a sudden spasm of fear at the idea: Mr Wooster, clapped in irons, thrown into a prison where he would surely perish. And all because he hadn’t bothered to type his illicit stories instead!

But no, I swiftly understood, he couldn’t have employed the typewriter; after all, the machine was as loud as a stampede. He had scribbled his drafts by hand so I wouldn’t know about them. Mr Wooster had done what he had to in order to keep his secret from me.

I had very little time to compose myself. I took a deep, bracing breath and swept into the sitting room, where my master was still occupied at his writing desk. He was in his shirtsleeves, as was usual when he was writing, his back to me as he typed. His golden hair was strikingly burnished in the low lamplight, his pale forearms lithe and lightly muscled as they moved over the keyboard. He typed just as he played the piano, near-careless in his movements but with an intense concentration that knotted his shoulders into a stiff line.

I had seen him work dozens, hundreds of times. And yet I felt as if I were watching a complete stranger, now that I knew what I knew. Where was my frivolous, idle master who wrote silly stories only to pass the time? Where was my incompetent, bumbling employer who was drawn to unsuitable women? When had Mr Wooster been replaced by a secret invert who penned romantic tales and had them printed in a South Bank basement?

“Jeeves?” Mr Wooster was staring at me. Probably for quite some time.

I shook myself. “Yes, sir?”

“B. and s.?” He raised his eyebrows, a question in themselves.

“Certainly, sir.”

Decorum and professional standards dictated I not reveal my discovery until my mind was allowed to process the facts. I mixed him a cocktail and proceeded as if nothing unusual had happened, for what possible good would come of that? Mr Wooster had a right to privacy, as any man does. I had stumbled across his secret unwittingly, and mentioning it would only serve to make our professional relationship fraught with ill will.

So I resolved to say and do nothing. That is, until Mr Wooster left the flat to play in his club’s annual darts tournament. Then I couldn’t help myself and dashed to the master bedroom to read the handwritten draft of James and Marling’s new adventure.

Judge me harshly if you must, but after the heartbreak of the last volume, I was eager to see the characters reunited. My master would be gone all day and perhaps most of the night; I saw no harm in reading the story if no one would ever know.

I unscrewed the brass lamp and slid the rolled pages from their hiding place, then sat on the carpet to devour my prize. I read with a purpose: James and Marling were once again together back in England, though much time had passed. I could barely contain my own sigh of relief as they at last embraced each other after so much time apart. What a sight I must have made, a fully grown man seated like a child on the ground, the rustle of paper and my palpable joy strangely reminiscent of Christmas Day.

It was only a little odd to read the story knowing Mr Wooster had written it. His publicly published work was very modern, and I was almost convinced he could never write in such a distinctly different style. And yet there was no doubt he was the same author; the words flowed exactly as they had in the last three books.

I was so entranced by the story--Marling had just revealed to James that he had become engaged to a wealthy countess, and James was weeping hopeless tears--that I did not look up until a very loud gasp startled me. My head whipped up and I saw Mr Wooster standing in the doorway of his bedroom, frozen in place. His eyes were riveted to the papers in my hands.

“Sir!” I was so shocked, I could muster no other words. He had been slated to compete in the darts tournament all day; he shouldn’t have returned so early! I scrambled to my feet and stood there dumbly, the pages of the story still clutched in my fingers.

I am given to believe (through motion pictures, popular novels, and musical comedies) that dramatic, awkward moments such as these are often punctuated by a long and lingering silence which folds its victims in its velvet stillness. This is how it was with us for a very long space of time, until Mr Wooster spoke. “I don’t know what you’re waiting for me to say. The ball is in your court, Jeeves.”

I struggled to speak, at a loss for words for once in my life. Finally, I managed, “Have you decided on an ending, sir?” I held out the pages to him, a gesture of surrender, perhaps, or goodwill.

For a moment, all was still. Then, Mr Wooster actually slumped against the door jamb as if he would faint. “Y-you want to finish it?”

I considered for only a moment how simple it would be to sweep this unpleasantness under the rug, so to speak, and allow Mr Wooster to know none of my secrets though I knew his. I could pretend I happened upon a story of which I knew nothing, and I could play the unruffled manservant who, upon seeing his master in a vulnerable, embarrassing state, merely turns a blind eye and carries on. However, I thought of how unfair this would be, to expect Mr Wooster to continue living in constant fear that I may one day blackmail him. And so I wordlessly went from the room, brushing past my master and beckoning him to follow me with a tip of my head. I led the way to my lair, moved the heavy steel locker aside, and pried up the loose floorboard.

Then I stood back and allowed Mr Wooster to peer into the recess. He did so owlishly, his large blue eyes darting along the contents of my horde. On the very top of the stack, of course, were the three _James and Marling_ volumes, and it was these Mr Wooster knelt to take in his hands.

“You’ve read them,” he said. His voice was a soft and wondering thing.

I nodded. “Please do not be offended, sir,” I said, “but if someone had informed me the Imaginative Gentleman was a person of my acquaintance, you would have been my very last guess.”

I saw now that violent colour had stolen into Mr Wooster’s cheeks, as it does when he is especially stressed. “Well,” he said in a voice that strove for off-handed, “if someone had let slip I had a reader of my secret works in my midst, I wouldn’t have placed good odds on you either.”

I allowed a small smirk to show, and my master’s shoulders drooped slightly from their tense placement. We stood there, no longer silent out of dreadful fear, but rather out of a keen sense of unnatural closeness. As a valet, I am meant to keep a professional distance from my employer and his personal business, and he is obliged to extend the same courtesy to me. But this turn of events had placed us both in the uncomfortable position of knowing exactly what the other thought of when he brought himself off at night, and _that_ is something a gentleman and his valet should never know about each other.

We may have stood there all evening (for I was unsure how to proceed), but thankfully Mr Wooster invoked his natural talent for putting me at my ease.

“I say!” he cried as he slapped the paperback book against his knee. “I imagine this is the sort of coincidence that always seems to happen in O. Harvey thingummies. O. Harvey? O. Nelly? What’s the chap’s name, Jeeves?”

“O. Henry, sir.”

“Quite right. What I mean to say is, it might be entirely understandable if one of us were a cissy, but--erm, not that I think you a cissy, you understand, Jeeves--but the both of us? It makes a cove wonder if there really is something to Providence and all that rot.”

“Very true, sir.”

Mr Wooster fidgeted with the book in his hands as his eyes took in my room for the first time. It occurred to me that he had never properly seen my living space, as he had always afforded me the utmost privacy.

“So, ah.” He sat somewhat gingerly on the edge of my mattress, as if he was unsure I would allow such a familiar seat for him. “You enjoy the Marling drivel, then?”

The small frisson of displeasure I had experienced in seeing my master sit on my bed was usurped by my need to correct him. “It is by no means drivel, sir.” I took my own seat next to him so that I might illustrate my point. I took the first volume from him and turned to a well-worn crack in the spine. “I have re-read some of these scenes over and over again. If I am very honest, sir, I am a great admirer of the work you have done here.”

If he had been blushing before, Mr Wooster was positively aflame now. “Oh! Well, it’s not anything, that is to say, I wasn’t attempting a serious what-have-you. Just dabbling and dithering a bit, what?” He glanced at me quickly before returning his gaze to the books I held. “I had been reading one of those rubbish novellas, you know the type, where a rough old master takes a strapping young servant boy as his, erm--”

My employer’s crippling embarrassment caused me to prompt, “His lover, sir?”

“Yes, certainly. His lover. Anyway, those books are good for a quick spark in the old imaginish, so I thought I might try my hand at writing something. For laughs, that is.” He fidgeted with his crisp waistcoat, which lay as properly as I’d ever seen it on his form.

“So you’ve read _The Education of an Innocent Stable Boy_?” I asked, trying and failing to picture my employer relaxing with such salacious material.

He nodded with vigour. “And _Boys All Summer_ , _Bottoms Up For Alfredo_ , and _A Callboy for His Lordship_! Oh, have you not read _Callboy_?” At my head shake, Mr Wooster cried, “One moment! You must see it, if only for the hilarious scene in the Parliamentary coat closet.”

He bounded from the room and returned a moment later, his arms weighed down with stacks of books, all cheaply bound, some flaking with age. Several volumes were thrust at me.

“Here, start with _Callboy_ and if you enjoyed my Marling stuff you might like _A Study in Lavender._ Would you believe it, Jeeves? Holmes and Watson are in it!”

“Really, sir?” I had heard such things existed but had never been able to locate such treasures. With his extensive fortune, Mr Wooster must have had access to materials I could never hope for. I examined with awe the simple covers of the slim books. “Thank you, sir. These will prove most illuminating, I’m sure.” Then, feeling I should return the favour, I motioned to the remainder of my stash of books beneath the floor. “Would you be interested in perusing _A Kept Man_? Or have you already seen it?”

“Gosh, no I haven’t! Sounds like a corker.” Mr Wooster scooped the book from its hiding place, and we fell into an easy chatter about the merits (or demerits) of particular stories. Soon we were lounging like schoolboys on my narrow bed, our noses buried in our respective books, speaking only to share a mirth-inducing misprint we’d stumbled across.

It was strange yet exhilarating to be sharing this hobby of mine so openly with anyone, let alone my master. Such things were solitary by their very nature. I peeked over the top of my current book (an exceedingly poor portrait of Sir Conan Doyle’s heroes that I nevertheless found quite erotic) and watched Mr Wooster, who had flopped on his stomach and was paging slowly through his own. What was I to call him now that he was my employer and my confidant?

As if sensing my thoughts and my gaze, Mr Wooster turned to grin at me. “It’s lovely having a friend like you, Jeeves, who shares my habits.”

A friend. Yes, I supposed it did fit. I normally would never allow such an overstepping of bounds, such a breach of decorum, but circumstances had placed us in an unusual situation. The only solution, it seemed, was a relaxing of our past propriety. That decided, I continued reading alongside Mr Wooster until the both of us began dozing into our pages; I saw him to bed and bid him goodnight.

I fell into this new friendship more easily than I thought possible. Mr Wooster and I continued to trade books back and forth in the evenings, and he even allowed me to read the entire handwritten draft for his next Marling novel. I devoured it with relish, and when I was done, Mr Wooster asked my opinion. I was encouraging (for it really was an excellent story) and offered a few suggestions for its further improvement. My master took these points to heart and implemented the changes readily. Though he had always been quick to take my advice in almost all matters, Mr Wooster had never sought out my thoughts on his writing. As his valet, I had had dominion over all aspects of his domestic life, and his domestic life only. His artistic life had been another thing altogether, and I had never presumed I would have a place there. And yet, while sitting hunched over the writing desk with him, I discovered yet another heretofore unseen side of my master: he was absolutely and exquisitely gifted.

The novel, in case you wondered, ended happily. The fiance was dispatched and James and Marling were together at last. Mr Wooster had been toying with a darker, more distressing finale, but I gently coaxed him in the other direction.

“There is already so much pain in the world,” I said one evening over his writing desk, the handwritten pages spread out before us. “Where shall our dreams be found if not in fiction?”

Mr Wooster stared at me as if he did not recongise me, his eyes penetrating me to the core. I realised I had spoken perhaps too freely, and I averted my gaze from his bright blue eyes. I cleared my throat to cover my discomfort.

“At any rate,” I continued, “I would enjoy it no matter how you decide to complete the tale.”

“Thank you, Jeeves.”

When the printing of the finished work was done, Mr Wooster presented me with a copy. On the dedication page was printed _To J_ , and I was touched beyond words.

“Think nothing of it,” he said in response to my gaping. “I would have never finished the bally thing without you.”

We were, at that moment, sitting on the master bed. I cannot say why exactly these tête-à-têtes occurred in our bedrooms; perhaps we felt the sitting room was too public a place to indulge in our illicit material, or perhaps we were so inured to keeping these habits in the bedroom that we stayed there out of instinct. Regardless, I sat on Mr Wooster’s bed and examined the cheaply made book in my hands, feeling a swelling of pride in my chest at my small part in its creation.

“May I read it, sir?” I asked, for I had still not read the completed work in toto.

Mr Wooster laughed. “Of course. Carry on with that; I’ve got a new one as well.” He held aloft his new acquisition, and within moments we were buried in our reading just as we had done a handful of other times together.

While I immersed myself in Marling’s tale, I was aware of Mr Wooster shifting on the mattress, stretching out his long legs and sprawling in a new position every few minutes. He is as restless a reader as he is a sleeper, I’ve noticed. After three-quarters of an hour or so, I perceived Mr Wooster had stilled. The sudden quiet after so much movement caught my attention and I glanced up from my book.

Mr Wooster was huddled up against his headboard, one elbow leaning on a pile of pillows. His eyes were riveted to the pages of his book, and from what I could see, he must have reached a stirring passage indeed. His trousers tented tellingly, not to mention the shallowness of his breathing.

If I was shocked at this sight, it was because we tended not to read overtly sexual material when we were together in the evenings. We both seemed to gravitate toward the more emotionally resonant, romantic stories. Of course those often degraded into base filth, but speaking for myself, it was often upon reaching that point in the narrative that I excused myself from Mr Wooster’s company for the night.

I hurriedly returned my gaze to my book, unsure of the proper response. I supposed I should make my exit, as it was Mr Wooster’s bedroom. But then again, perhaps the best course of action was to ignore my master’s aroused state and allow him time to bring his ardour under control. That way he would be spared the embarrassment of knowing what I’d seen. I concentrated on my book once more.

However, the story took an unexpected turn. It appeared Mr Wooster had inserted a chapter I had not seen previously. In it, Marling surprises James with a night away from the mansion and servants and the family. After months of being apart, they finally come together to make love again and again. And again.

I attempted to cross my legs to hide the burgeoning arousal I felt building, but it was no use. I shut my eyes and tried to breathe deeply to clear my head of these lustful images, but I could not. Never before had my collar felt so tight, nor my uniform so constricting.

I opened my eyes, intent on declaring that I would retire for the night, but Mr Wooster’s arrested gaze met mine instead. He must have been watching my struggle for some moments, though he tried to quickly return his attention to the book in his hands.

“Hm,” he said, his voice pitched a mite too high. “How is it coming along, then, Jeeves?” He seemed to belatedly remember his own erection, for he lowered his book to cover his lap.

“Well, very well,” I answered in a gravelly rumble, “though it’s growing late, sir. I should--”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Mr Wooster’s fingers curled into his duvet, flexing there rhythmically. “Must get your eight hours, what?”

I made to stand, awkwardly holding my book in front of me as well. Mr Wooster watched my painfully slow progress and seemed to come to a kind of decision, for he said in one long rush, “Now look, Jeeves, we’re both men of the world, yes, and we weren’t born yesterday, that is to say, you and I both know what’s happening here, and what’s happening here is nothing more than two coves satisfying their baser urges with a little bit of scintillating reading, if scintillating is the word I want, and I just don’t see why, if you’re going back to your lair to do what I plan on doing in about two ticks, why you can’t just--”

“Sir,” I said with great care. “Breathe.”

Mr Wooster paused for a huge, sucking breath. “What I mean to say is, Jeeves, is that you don’t have to go.” He removed the book from his groin, his eyes glued to me though I could not help but look at his member straining in his trousers. “If you’d rather not.”

I was still seated on the very edge of the mattress, half wanting to leap to my feet and run, half wanting to gravitate to him, and the two warring sides of me kept me frozen. “I--” I could not finish.

My master bit his lip in the most astonishing fashion; either he was truly adept at seduction or he was honestly oblivious to everything around him. “I don’t mean to frighten you, Jeeves,” he said. He cupped himself with his hand, and I ceased to breathe. “Only, when I was at school, there was no shame in having a bit of a bull session between chaps. That is, it was the done thing to beat the bishop in a group.”

My brows knitted. “Are you suggesting, sir, that we pull ourselves off together?”

“If you’d rather not--” He shrugged.

I had assumed for one terrifying, confusing, thrilling moment that Mr Wooster was asking me to stay for something more than solo activities. But now it appeared he was only inviting me to partake in a mere gesture of camaraderie. I had never done such a thing within my own circle of friends, but perhaps in Mr Wooster’s world this was, as he said, “the done thing.” One hears stories of what goes on in public schools, certainly. But one never imagines those lewd traditions might touch one’s life at the age of thirty-two.

Despite my misgivings, I did not want to disrupt the tenuous friendship that had sprung up between Mr Wooster and myself. If I had had my wits about me, I might have noted that Mr Wooster is too polite and too accommodating to withdraw his friendship had I refused, but these things are always more clear in hindsight.

I nodded somewhat dazedly and remained sitting. My eyes danced along the creases of the duvet, a scuff on the toe of my shoe, anything but my master. I would take my cues from him, I decided, and I had no idea if my gaze was meant to be averted throughout the proceedings.

It is my belief that, no matter how perfect a specimen or how fit a body, no one can appear anything less than ridiculous when in the throes of self-pleasure. The male body in particular has the unfortunate distinction of dangling, wagging, and bulging when aroused. I am fortunate in that I escaped the crippling shame that infects some men of my disposition, but I am the first to admit the act of masturbation is not the most attractive thing.

Which is why I was so surprised to find that Mr Wooster carried it off like a professional. While I struggled to decide whether to unbutton my flies or merely massage myself through my trousers, my master bounded ahead, slithering out of his clothing from the waist down. His waistcoat joined the trousers and underthings on the floor, and for a moment I considered chiding him for what I now realised was a routine mishandling of garments that necessitated near-daily ironing. But I held my tongue: now was especially not the time to remind Mr Wooster that I was his valet.

His cock was so very red when compared to the pale white of his thighs. It jutted upwards almost completely straight, so different from my own curved member. Mr Wooster tugged his fingers through the thatch of sandy blond hair at the base, his eyes alternating between fluttering closed and staring at the ceiling.

He lay there on his back, his fingers sliding round his shaft and soft moans spilling from his lips. If he was at all nervous to be performing this act before me, he gave no sign of it. I even imagined it set fire to his blood, to have a witness to his pleasure in the room. My hand crept toward my flies of my own accord, and before I knew it, I was wrapping my own fist round my cock.

No qualms now, watching him. His mouth open, his pink tongue licking his lips. His back arches. Toes curl into the bedclothes. A bead of sweat breaks free from his brow and trickles down to his hairline. One hand to his cock, one tugging his bollocks. Eyes open, slide toward me. A hint of a smile playing at his panting mouth.

Could I kiss him, I wondered. Would he kiss me in return?

It was over for me then; I came off into my hand, a low groan in my throat. My eyes shut with the force of it, but I pried them open again in time to watch Mr Wooster give in to his peak with a wild cry. Thick white streams painted streaks on his belly, his still-buttoned shirt. For a long moment, nothing but our heavy breaths filled the room.

I stared at my dirtied hand, feeling heavy with the weight of what I’d just done. This had not been a passing dalliance between friends. I had watched my master with lust in my veins; I had come off _for_ him, not with him.

Only weeks before, I had considered him nothing more than an employer. A long-term employer of whom I was very fond, yes, but not this. Not a holder of my secrets, an object of wanton desire. I looked back on the last few weeks we’d spent deepening our bonds of friendship, and I realised my emotions had been creeping up on me this entire time.

I had not thought it would come to this. I was in a great deal of trouble.

“Sir--” I said, thinking it best to just say it and be done with it.

A snore met my unfinished statement. I looked over to find Mr Wooster, sprawled and sleeping against his pillows, his cock softening on his belly. I sighed. Procured a damp cloth and cleaned us both. Stripped him of his remaining clothes and tucked him under the covers. And then I went to bed, my head filled with confused and conflicting thoughts.

The next morning I did not wait for Mr Wooster to awaken. I left the flat and made my way to the Ganymede. It was a Saturday and I knew Carlson would be at the club from eight to ten, his standing appointment for a leisurely breakfast. His household had a host of butlers and maids to see to their employers, and his Saturday breakfasts were a luxury he’d earned after years of service. Baker joined him when possible, but as he served a single gentleman, his free time was more restricted. I found Carlson at his usual table, and he invited me to sit.

“Something troubling you, young Reginald?” Carlson asked.

“I discovered the author I was seeking,” I began. I glanced round the dining room, but it was empty at this early hour. “He is a man, by the way.”

“Well, good for you.” Carlson took a bite of his eggs. “And the problem arose how, exactly?”

I expelled a deep breath as I confessed: “I know the man well. Before uncovering his secret nature, I had not considered him in that fashion.”

My old friend smiled widely, his white mustache bristling as his lips twitched. “So you’ve fallen for someone you hadn’t given two seconds’ thought to before. It happens. Why, when I met Tom, it wasn’t bells and angels on high. It takes time, lad. Time and perhaps seeing a chap in a new light.”

“Yes, but,” I said, “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never--” I rubbed my palm half-consciously over my chest. “--fallen, as you say, like this before.”

Carlson nibbled on his toast. “Have you told him yet?”

“I cannot.”

“But you must!”

“No, I must not.”

“Tosh! What is he, the Prime Minister?” Carlson laughed, but then caught sight of my face. Something in my visage must have reflected the truth, for he sobered quickly. “Reginald,” he said slowly, “who is it?”

I shook my head, feeling nearly on the verge of tears. My voice broke as I answered. “He is my employer. Mr Wooster.”

Carlson laid his fork and knife down on his plate. He removed his serviette from his shirtfront and folded it on the table. He took a deep drink from his teacup and replaced it in its saucer. When he finally spoke, the words tore through me. “You must resign.”

I protested. “Perhaps I might--”

“No.” Carlson’s voice was firm. “Reg, you know how impossible it would be. It’s the one thing, the _one thing_ , I told you to avoid.”

“I know,” I mumbled miserably.

His worn, leathery hand rested briefly on my shoulder, and he squeezed once. “It would be no life for you, Reginald. It would kill me to see you cast aside; I’ve seen it all too often with our kind. You deserve better. There are dozens, hundreds of men in London for you.”

I thought briefly of glowing blue eyes, delicate fingers on a clacking typewriter, the hint of a smile on a flushed face. “None like him,” I said.

Carlson sighed. “This came upon you suddenly. I wish I could say it will leave you just as quickly. But it would be better for everyone involved if you resign your position.”

“Yes.” My agreement was choked from me, as if my throat hated it.

“Today. Hand in your resignation,” Carlson insisted.

I nodded tightly.

“You’ll be all right.”

I did not agree. I left the Junior Ganymede with a heavy heart, my legs like leaden pipes. Each step brought me nearer to my doomed fate. My thoughts swung wildly from subject to subject: How would Mr Wooster react? Where could I seek new employment? Should I perhaps leave London for a time? Where could I go that the memory of Mr Wooster would not follow?

I do not remember the walk back to Berkeley Square, nor do I recall climbing the stairs to the flat. I only know I shook myself from my daze to find myself home. I looked at my pocket watch. It was nearly ten, the usual hour Mr Wooster awoke for his breakfast.

I made my way to my lair to hang my hat and coat. And as I opened the door, I saw Mr Wooster lying in my bed, sleeping in his dressing gown.

Did I gasp? Did the door creak? I heard nothing but the rush of blood in my ears, so I cannot say. But some noise must have roused Mr Wooster, for he sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“Ah. Jeeves.” He blinked up at me. “I _do_ apologise for falling unconscious like that last night. Not very gentlemanly of me, I’m afraid. But I noticed when I awoke you were not there. So, lesson learned. I give you my word as a Wooster I will seek to correct this defect in my manners.”

I stood there in the doorway, feeling as if some important set of pages had been skipped over. “Sir,” I said, “what do you mean, I was not there?”

He coloured slightly and wrapped his dressing gown more snugly round his frame. “Well, I remember drifting off with you at my side. And then this morning, you weren’t. At my side, that is. You were welcome to stay, of course! Unless--” Mr Wooster took in my features, which must have been composed like granite. “Unless, that is to say . . . oh, Jeeves, did you find it very dreadful?”

I stared down at the floorboards, my hand still on the doorknob. “I--” I swallowed. “I must go.”

“Go?” Mr Wooster rose to his knees on the mattress. The bed-springs squealed in protest. “But you’ve only just come home.”

“No, sir, I mean I must go. Away from here.”

His hands were pressed to my chest, then clutching my shoulders, in an eyeblink. “Damn it all, Jeeves, I didn’t mean to-- I’ve offended you, I see that now. Lounging in your room in my nightclothes, shameless, I know. I’m sorry, truly, and if you can accept my apologies, Jeeves, we can go back to being friends. I quite liked being friends, and you seemed to quite like it as well, and, well, maybe . . . .”

He seemed to run out of steam like a locomotive without coal, and his voice petered out. I dared glance at his face, drawn and pale.

“I’m sorry, Jeeves. You can’t blame a chap for trying, can you?” Mr Wooster said. His gaze was riveted to my top waistcoat button, and as I watched, a thin film of tears coated the redness of his eyes. The strength that was required to harden my heart at this sight!

“You are not to blame, sir.” I pulled his hands from my shoulders and gently placed them at his sides. “It was I who allowed things between us to progress far beyond what is proper.”

“Proper can hang,” he said. His eyes flashed with resolution. “Jeeves, you know I think you’re an absolute pippin, don’t you? I couldn’t bear it if you left without being certain of that fact.”

“I--” I should have led Mr Wooster from the room, I should have begun packing my bags. Instead I said, “I feel the same, sir, though I cannot act upon it.”

“Well, what’s stopping you, dash it!?” he shouted. “It’s a hellish thing, Jeeves, to leave a cove hanging in the breeze like this! One doesn’t gamble on these things lightly!” He clasped my hands in his. “I saw it in your eyes, Jeeves. Last night, when you looked at me. Why won’t you stay when we both know it?”

I held onto his hands with crushing force. “You will come into a title when your uncle passes, sir.”

“Yes, and?”

“You will marry, sir.”

“What rot!”

“You will have children.”

“You’re speaking gibberish!”

“You will have a son.”

“I’ll do no such thing!”

“You will pass on the title to him.”

“What now, Jeeves? Now you’re a bally mindreader?”

“No, this is just what is done!” I roared. His hands shook in mine. “ _This_ is how your life unfolds! Not with a invert valet, not with a bent manservant, but with a family! How can you ask me to--?”

I bit my lip and shut my eyes tightly. Losing my temper would accomplish nothing.

“Say it,” Mr Wooster said quietly. “Say what you wanted to say.” I shook my head. He squeezed my hands with surprising strength. 

My voice was low and broken. “How can you ask me to love you for but a year, two years, five years if I am very lucky, only to lose you forever? This is the reality, sir. It is not worth the pain.”

“Reality?” Mr Wooster’s hands gentled in mine and slid up to grasp my wrists. “Oh, Jeeves. You poor thing. You honestly think our dreams are only found in fiction?”

I did not reply. There was nothing to say.

My master sighed and brushed past me, leaving the room with the slow swish of his fine dressing gown surrounding him. He took two steps, paused, and turned to say over his shoulder, “I wrote them for you, you know. My silly little Victorian stories. Even before I knew you read them, they were made for you.” And he continued down the hall.

One step, another, one more still. Mr Wooster was moving away from me, and I would never again have his touch or his bright eyes or his smile. He had loved me before I’d even seen him for what he was.

I whirled. “Sir!” He turned, and I was walking, running, toward him, taking him by the shoulders and crushing him to me. His hair beneath my cheek, his lips against my throat.

“A very cruel way to say goodbye, Jeeves,” he croaked.

“No, sir,” I said. “An incredibly foolish way to say yes.”

“Yes? Yes to what?”

“Yes to whatever you want from me. Yes, I will take the chance. Ask anything of me and my answer will be yes, yes, yes.” I pressed kisses to his face, and thankfully he guided me to his waiting lips.

Mr Wooster pulled back after a long and satisfying embrace, his eyes alight. “You are sure, Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir.” And I kissed my employer, my friend, my secret love. I kissed him and never stopped. I kiss him still, every hour I am awake if I can manage it. I kiss him and remember the tomes he wrote for me, chronicling the love of two impossible men.

And so, I give this meager work to him, even if it is only a fraction of what he created for me.

It has been a wonderful ten years, Bertram Wooster, and I love you so very much.

 

 

fin


End file.
